Return to The Quarry

Chapter One

In any other situation, the sparkling waters of Lake Septimus in the golden glow of late afternoon would have been breathtaking, but there was no time to take it all in.

Max and Laura climbed out of the canoe and up onto the dock of the island in the middle of Lake Septimus. The oppressive August heat made the island seem all the more still as Laura and Max crept up the steps, past a pair of latrines and into the shade of a lean-to. All around them, cicadas droned noisily in the late afternoon sun. The cries of a lone bird reached them from someplace distant. Other than these, they appeared to be the only living things around.

Max sat down heavily on a log bench inside the lean-to.

"Are you sure no one's here?" he asked, sounding unusually winded.

Laura took a long drink from a bottle of water she stole from a fridge in the police station. "Did you miss that long line of buses heading north on the road?"

"I mean, yeah, the kids left. But are you sure about the SUV?"

"Max, it was the same one parked out in front of the lodge the night we got here."

Leaning back against the solid log upright of the lean-to, he considered this. "You're sure? I didn't get a good look at who was in it,"

Laura squinted into the sun as she peered all around her. "That's because it was going 90 miles per hour. I mean, I get wanting to make a break for it after two months stuck with rowdy kids and no internet, but damn." She studied Max. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I just keep thinking I hear people." He winced. "Weird as it sounds, I think I can actually, I don't know. Smell other people nearby."

Shit, Laura thought. It's starting.

"Max, I think maybe you should get into shelter and rest. According to the map in the camp brochure, there's a treehouse on this island. The stairs to it are somewhere around that bend. You'll be somewhat protected there."

Max nodded weakly. His posture was stooped, and he hunched his shoulders. He stood and stretched a little. As Laura gathered the old worn duffle bag of supplies which included among other things a shotgun and the silver shells, the oversized waistband of the gray sweats she wore went slack again. She knew there was no tying it tight enough, and therefore no way she'd be able to complete the grisly task that lay before her in these clothes. She handed the bag to Max.

"Take this to the treehouse."

He blinked at her. "Why? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to look for something else to wear."

Max smirked and gave her a sidelong glance. "Something to wear? You know we're on an island,"

"Just go! And see if there's any way to heat the treehouse. When you change back, you'll be freezing."

Max did as he was told, leaving Laura to her errand. The lean-to structure, as she was given to understand, was where campers took theater lessons. If they used the lean-to as a makeshift stage, there would have to be some sort of storage system for props and costumes. As Laura rounded the back side of the lean-to, her eyes fell upon a large metal storage locker.

"Jackpot," she whispered to herself. The massive metal lock dangling from the hasp was no match for a large rock, and inside, she struck gold. Black dance pants. A black tank top. Weight lifter's gloves. Instead of the flannel, she opted for a heavy olive green military-type shirt to cover her shoulder and arms from branches and brush. She even found a vinyl pirate's eye patch.